A Hunting We Will Go
by Tezna
Summary: Sam and Dean go on a hunt.
1. Part 1

A minuscule mountain town and an old haunting. Always fun, right?

"1940. Woman murdered in winter wonderland." Sam slapped the ancient newspaper down on the table in front of his older brother.

"Does this town have a bar?" Dean raised an eyebrow, gauging Sam's reaction.

Sam pressed on, heedless of Dean's smartass comment.

"Victim was twenty three, been missing for a year and a half, found by a photographer. Jackass took some shots of his own before alerting the police."

Dean looked over the bundle of pictures from him, smirking and flipping through them.

"She looks hot."

"Yeah, that's nice, but listen- she was tacked up to this tree by a _hunting_ knife, showing signs of rape and torture. Because they couldn't find a killer or a motive, they pinned it as suicide and left it at that."

"And?"

An exasperated sigh was his only answer. "So this chicks dies. Tragic. Where's the twist?"

"Other people have turned up the same way. Cut up and dumped somewhere in the general area. The latest case was less that a month ago- Young girl, missing for a year, suddenly turns up in the middle of nowhere. Fresh corpse and everything."

"Okay. I get. Ghostly lady kills people in the same way that she died- how are we supposed to solve this one? Play detective?"

Sam shrugs. "DUDE! This was over 60 years ago! What can we do?"

"Whatever we have to, Dean."

Dean rose to pack with a grumble.

--

"Wake me when we hit Main street." Dean slumped in shotgun for once, since Sam decided that Dean was too bored to pay attention to the road anymore.

"That _was_ main street."

"WHAT?! That was like, ten buildings! This isn't a town, moron, this isn't even civilization! It's a fake movie set! A cheap, independent, wild west movie set."

"What can I tell you, Dean?" he let his voice slip into a honeyed, sarcastic tone. "Welcome home, sweetheart! How do you like it?"

"I hate you."

"I know you do."

They pulled into an inn, where Dean promptly demanded for his keys and surveyed the street for a bar. Sam could only assume that he found one when he returned with a smile plastered on his face.

"Lets dump our crap and get started."

"What changed your mind?"

"Dude, dollar drafts on Monday nights. Plus, the chick at the bar looks pretty easy."

"Great. I'm thrilled for you. Maybe I can head you off for about an hour so we can check out the spot where she died."

"Great. What a mood killer."


	2. Part 2

Sam could see that they were getting nowhere. Dean was reluctant to leave the bar, and the blonde was ogling him with no amount of restraint. Packing his book bag, he stumbled outside, narrowly avoiding a run-in with a pack of bikers. Heading north, he came across the road heading to the cemetery. It was a mangled road, lined with willow trees and hemmed with somber lilac bushes. A sign read simply "Rosewood Cemetery".

He tromped up the lane, texting Dean his location and intentions. Without a reply, he shone his flashlight on the remaining headstones. Hearing the rustle of leaves behind him, he swiveled and almost blinded the young lady with "Rosewood Tours" typewritten on her shirt.

"What the hell?" she crossed her arms over her face and glared. "Shine that somewhere else."

"You do tours?" Sam asked sheepishly.

She stretched out her hand,

"For a price."

--

Sam opened the curtains, letting in the harsh mountain sun. Dean swore and pulled the sheet over his head.

"Sun's up, sleeping beauty. Get your ass out of bed."

"Whatever" Dean mumbled, burying his head farther under the pillow.

"Got some new information on the _hot assed ghost chick._"

Dean groaned.

"Ok. Spill."

"Around the same time that she was found, there was a cult who specialized in witch hunting and black magic. They 'supposedly' experimented on them with blood rituals, spirit summoning, and 'soul-searing'."

"Soul-searing?"

"They tried to pull the souls out of the victim's bodies, using various methods of torture and exorcisms."

"Exorcisms? Those are only for demons."

"They altered them, and, well…the results weren't pretty. It drove them insane."

"What does this have to do with the dead girl?"

"She might not be doing the killing." "You think the cult's still active?"

"They never caught anyone"

"This isn't our job, Sam! We work with the supernatural, not the superstitious!"

"They're killing people, Dean. Are you seriously going to say that it isn't our problem?" Sam rose, taking full advantage of his height, leering over Dean threateningly.

Dean relented, not having much choice when he sat in the shadow of Sam.

"I hate cults. That last one you dragged me into _**sucked**__._"

"That's only because you pissed them off."

"Those bitches strung me up and tried to sacrifice me to _**SATAN!**_"

"You insulted the head priestess."

"We were two consenting adults, Sam. That did _**not**_ justify trying to suck out my soul!"

"It was karma. Finally biting you in the ass."

"Thank you, Sam. That's very reassuring."


	3. Part 3

A dim light shone through the barred window of Marie's basement. Her rounds were complete, and after that guy Sam had left, she'd gone over things a second time, just to be safe. Hers was no ordinary task, and she wanted no surprises to crop up.

Dustin had his feet on her good coffee table, mug in hand. His hat was pulled over his eyes, badly disguising the fact that he was napping on duty. Instead of waking him (he had the mouth of a sailor, the temper of a bull in rodeo season, and a difficult case of insomnia. It was better to just cover for him.), she scanned the room for intruders.

In a small town like Cameron, most doors were left unlocked. Hers was the only exception. The old oak door was bolted, and had a silver chain dangling from the top. Other oddities were scattered around the house- celtic crosses, pentacles, triquetra, Chi-ro, and a Star of Babalon carved into the woodwork.

A young man, black-eyed and weary, stood at the end of the hallway, in the center of an expansive and intricate circle etched into the floor. His arms stretched above his head, chained to a pipe that jutted out of the ceiling. Blood dripped from a gash in his shoulder, his moans of pain only silenced by his lack of consciousness.

His heartbeat was faltering and unsteady, his breathing shallow, forced. She would wash him up in the morning, but now she had work to do. She would be entertaining guests tomorrow, and Marie needed somewhere to keep them. 

It was an honor, helping the elders of their town rid the world of evil. She would do whatever it took to ensure that the witches and demons of the world were slain, one by one. She just had to bide her time.

But, eventually, her time would come. She simply had to wait.


	4. Part 4

A frail librarian showed Sam and Dean to the ancient section of the library, where the shelves still smelled of mothballs and Pledge. It was a vulgar mix, and Sam gagged every time he opened the first dozen newspapers.

"What year are we looking for, Sam?" Dean plucked a page from the stack and held it between his thumb and forefinger before letting it fall back to the pile of yellowing papers. "Dinosaurs could have used this for toilet paper."

His enthusiasm went unnoticed by Sam, who thumbed through the pamphlets with no effort to even react to his brother's statement.

After Dean had finally admitted defeat, he put his energy into the piles of books, some being handwritten accounts of the disappearances, journals depicting aspects of certain individuals that was _way_ too personal for him. Sam merely grunted his way through an hour of this torture, while Dean gave up three journals through and amused himself with texting the blonde from last night.

--

"Here she is." Sam handed him the county's book of records, open to the year 1937.

"Margaret Marie Simmons. Married to Ravana Simmons, a second generation American. They had one son, Seth. Margaret was killed that year, but no one figured out who did it."

Dean shot him a muddled look. "And?"

"_And_ she was weird."

"You mean, no-elbows-on-the-table weird, or kill-you-and-eat-you-with-barbeque-sauce weird?"

"Like just-because-I'm-paranoid-doesn't-mean-they're-not-watching kind of weird. Seemed to be a bit of a zealot on the side. Kinda…"

"A few crayons short of a rainbow?"

Sam laughed.

"Yup, looks like it. And she blamed everything that went wrong on the foreigners that lived next door." He tossed Dean another book, a good 15 years older than the first. "The Raavi's. Cinaed, Katarine, and Aleydis. In Cameron, however, they were known as Colin, Catalina and Alexis Harwood."

"Looks like daddy had quite the record."

Sam's voice slipped from his normal, educated tone and fell into the fast, excitable character Dean recognized from the days before Stanford. Or a fan girl. He didn't know which was more accurate.

"Yeah! Grave desecration, trespassing, fraud, murder, drunk and disorderly, you name it!"

Dean raised his eyebrows and scanned the page.

"Sam, this looks pretty deep."

"Don't you see?! He's a hunter! Well, was…"

"That would explain the identity change…but the ladies?"

"Katarine had a criminal record dating back to the 1890's. That woman was a pistol."

"So they moved to America for a new start."

"Or for bigger territory."

"What about the kid?" Dean furrowed his brow. "Name sounds familiar."

"Alexis Rhiannon Harwood, our tree lady."

"That sounds right."

"Good old Margaret accused her of being a witch just a week before she died. Aleydis disappeared a month after that."

"_Now _this is our kind of gig! I was worried that you led us to a bum job, Sammy."

"Maybe now you can stop texting that bimbo and pay attention." Sam smirked.

Dean only smiled. "Anything for you, Sam", he mocked.

"Smartass."

"Bitch."


	5. Part 5

Officer McCaffrey sat at his desk, fumbling through papers and signing wherever he felt like. Coffee stains covered his uniform, and crumbs littered his desk. The boss was out sick and the building was empty, save him. Some of the boys had been called out to pick up another body, a male this time.

The poor woman who called it in was an angel of a young woman, but not known for her brains. Marie Simmons was too flighty to be of much help, but the pretty young thing was dumb enough to be trustworthy. Too bad she would never be anything more than a tour guide.

"If I were twenty years younger…"he mused, but was interrupted by the sharp rings of the office phone. "Yellow! McCaffrey here, Cameron PD. How can I help you?"

"Bob? It's Jerry. Tom found him- Lemme tell 'ya, it's not pretty."

"The dead guy?"

"No, the magical rainbow pony. Drivers license name him as Michael Firth, of Ouray, Colorado."

"I'll punch that in, see what it tells me. Stay on the line."

He dangled the receiver from one hand and started typing haphazardly with the other. A grainy picture appeared on the screen, depicting a nice looking boy with a green Mohawk and more piercing than barbed wire. He was playfully flipping off the camera.

McCaffrey whistled. "Ouray PD say he's been missing for several weeks. Aren't they out in the plains? How the hell'd he wind up here?

"Apparently _we're_ supposed to figure that out, Robbie." Jerry spat in a mocking tone.

"No need to get so squirrelly, Jerry. Just thinking out loud, is all."

"Good for you, man. While you sit on you ass, we get to answer to the press. If they get wind of just how big this is, guess how much overtime we'll be making?"

"Press?"

"Yeah, two bums from the inner city are passing through. Dick and Sal, or the like. I hate columnists, always waving that crap about the first amendment around, like it's a get out jail free card or something."

"I feel for ya."

"'Course you do. Up in the comfort of your big, comfy chair, listening to the radio, probably eating a doughnut."

He swallowed the offending pastry and blushed.

"Get up here and we'll compare notes. I'll pull the Suffolk and Lockheed cases, while you question little Marie. Make sure you get a decent report this time. And don't let those reporters buzz around too much. You're right, they _can't _know how bad this really is. Show 'em up, beat 'em down, spin 'em around, but don't give away the punch line, got it?"

"Right-o, Rob. I'm on it."


	6. Part 6

A doe-eyed woman limps her way home, shuddering from the cold and the pain. It's as if fire is pumped through her veins in place of blood. Her hair clings to her back, frozen in raven curls. No one sees her, and she likes it that way. She can patch herself up, once she gets home.

Aleydis, or Alexis, whoever they were calling her now, would be home. Aleydis would take care of her.

She stumbles and falls in the silent winter, feels the cool snow against her face, lost in the terrible remembering.

Aleydis would not be home for her. Not this time.

--

"Well, that was no help." Sam dumped his bag on the quilted mattress, letting the frustration fall away with it. Dean, however, had no such outlet.

"How many of these stiffs do you think they've found?"

"Who knows. They're from all over, though. This kid, Colin, hails from Ouray."

"What about the others?"

"I only know about the one from Detroit."

"And?"

"Vanished three years ago, turned up the winter of 2006 in the northern Rockies. In a year-round snow drift, actually, so it's anybody's guess how long he'd been there."

"And this kid, he was an 'emo', yeah? Angsty poet? Nocturnal web surfer?"

"Yeah, but not like Colin. You wouldn't have thought anything weird about him just by looking at the pics he had up on myspace."

"Wait," Dean shot him a devious glance. "You looked up a dead kid's myspace? No, Sammy, that's not creepy at all…"

"Hilarious." Sam started going through the pages he'd printed off earlier that day. There were others, missing teens that vanished in the area, most of them peculiar, strange, or just plain crazy. The majority of the victims lately were men, but there was another string of disappearances in a different section of the mountains that were mostly women. Their little Alexis was only the first in dozens of attacks like this.

They were obviously very organized- snatch an offender from another city, drag them back to the hideout, dump the body in the middle of nowhere, and hope for the best.

Now, it seemed, the zealots were getting clumsy in their quest to…do what, exactly?

Dean had gotten a pretty good look at the latest dead kid, and there was definitely a messed-up whackjob behind this. The Sigil of Sulfur had been ripped into his back, and words encircled his right arm, but Dean had been too hurried to figure out what it said. The last thing he had managed to catch was a small, crude tattoo etched behind his left ear, before Mr. Macho Policeman had rushed to the scene.

"What did our original look like, Sam?"

"No, Dean, that is not funny."

"Jeez, Sam, her face! What did they do to her face?"

Sam, still skeptical, handed him the only shot with enough focus to capture any subtle damage done by the assailant.

"They're not the greatest quality, Dean. So if you're looking to do anything kinky-"

"Shut up. I'm supposed to be the funny one." He lifted the picture to the light so that he could study the wounds in more gruesome detail. Pointing to the design just underneath her ear, he questioned Sam. "What does this look like to you?"

"A tattoo, I guess."

"I bet that, if you had the urge to look at it from a different angle, you would see a crescent moon and a weird-assed star."

"Why's that?"

Dean slapped the file down whimsically, like he'd just won a game of poker with a silver-tongued bluff.

"Because that's the same one Colin had."

Sam gave the photo a once over, and looked in his stack for one that gave them a better angle.

"Am I right?"

Sam shrugged off the peal of nervous laughter that threatened to burst from him. This was getting complicated.

"What can I say, Dean? You win. There's no doubt about it, the attackers are the same people. Or group, since it's been almost 70 years between them."

Dean lost his triumphant gaze when he realized the broadness of their range.

"So it could be anybody?"

"Anybody within a 60 mile radius. That body was fresh. Whoever dumped it can't have gone far…" Sam let his sentence trail off, knowing how foolish it was to hope that the killer hadn't gone far.

"It's back to square one, huh?"

"Yup."

--Author's note--

Don't get too attached to this chapter. It's not my best, and i do plan on refining it.

Reviews are the best things you could possibly give me, even if it's just to tell me to never write anything else, ever ever again. Make my day!


	7. Part 7

Somewhere in the wintery darkness, a silent figure shuddered.

It had been too long, hiding in the darkness. Shrouded, safe from the world. 

Now, finally back on the trail, she recalled the shame that had driven her away, so long ago. What they had done…what they continued to do.

She checked it all one last time- once this went down, she was done. There was no double-checking from this point on, no second chances. She'd staked everything on this, though, in all fairness, she had very little on the line.

Nothing left to do but win.

--

Dean had only intended to have one drink, but the weight of the case dragged him down. To douse his nerves in beer, to wash away the feelings, the sense of doubt, the wavering confidence, it was all he knew how to do, at this point. So he downed one drink after another, unsure what led him to the bar or who the woman beside him was. She didn't seem interested in anything but talking, and he didn't really mind. Talking was not something he was especially practiced at, but she made it easy.

Sam sat in the motel room, alone and empty, overwhelmed by the nothingness that surrounded him. This case was not worth it.

Nothing online led him anywhere, and the data that filled the screen only set him back. Maybe Dean had the right idea. A long line of beers seemed more welcoming than a lackluster attempt at making sense of all this. But one of them had to stay sober enough to stop the other one form doing something fatal. By proxy, that was Sam.


	8. Part 8

A terribly melodic howl ripped through the frosty air, shuddering through the trees and rushing down the mountain. There was a solemn tone to it, as if it were a prolonged agony that had been forced under the surface until it had become stale, unstable. There nothing animal about it- just the raw pain of the moment breaking through the ice.

Dean spun drunkenly, the lights were bright, nearly blinding, even in this dusty mountain town. Somebody. Anybody, could be anybody…or a coyote. Or a rock lion. Mountain sheep? He knew there was an animal that could simulate a human scream, but the name escaped him. Stone goat? Now, this was just ridiculous.

The words, "Did I have a few too many?" dropped sullenly from his lips, pursed in an attempt to stifle the moan that dared to rear its head and tear at his mouth, his throbbing head. The voice that sounded like Sam declared heavily in his mind,

"Gee, Dean. What a question. It's like you're freaking Einstein or something."

Leaning against the lamppost, he steadied himself on the cold metal. Wrenching his hand away from the frosted surface, he grimaced and he examined the biting flash. He hated snow. Ice. Winter. Mountains. Colorado. Whatever had decided to make it be like whatever it was…God so drunk.

A bundle of people, huddled in smothered silence, supported a struggling woman as they marched down the street. Dean was reminded of a song by Herman's Hermits, suddenly looping through his head.

"I'm leaning on the lamp post at the corner of the street, in case a certain little lady comes by…"

He hummed to himself, trying to think of why the civilians struck an odd chord with him. Maybe it was the booze.

Maybe it was how the woman had a small, familiar tattoo. Maybe it was the heavy-set, off-duty officer, Robert McCaffrey, holding her head upright, using the pressure points settled just underneath her jaw. Maybe it was the annoying redhead, Marie, jutting out in front, as if to cover them. Maybe it was the jolly gas station attendant, Howard, who strapped her arms together with duct-tape, letting her wrists jut out at awkward angles. Maybe it was the glare he got, for his second, third, fourth glances.

Maybe he was crazy.

Maybe's could only get him so far.

Maybe it was time to do something.

His was the first punch- unfortunately for him, it was also his last. 'Jolly Bill' and 'Officer Bob' were on him before he even made contact, leaving the brunette in the arms of the scruffy stranger, while Marie looked on, seemingly disinterested in anything but the captive.

There was no one to hear him scream, if it had indeed reached the night air. A sock was driven down his throat, gagging him twice over (once with the stench, once with the solidity of an object being shoved into his windpipe). He had little time to wonder whose sock it was and how it had been relocated so quickly, but he fought an admirable battle against the darkness that claimed his vision.

"Blrarghmalphdge" he gurgled, failing his last attempt at a snarl.

Marie took notice then, leaning in to study his face. She smiled slowly, a devious smile that made him even sicker (if it were possible) than before. He might have thrown up a little, but there was an object jammed into his chest cavity, so it wasn't much of an option. She let her lips travel towards his ear, whispering sickly-sweet threats into his ear, her fingers pressing into his spine. He felt the pinch of a needle before it all went black.


	9. Part 9

It was almost noon, and Dean was nowhere to be found.

Sam had questioned the bartender, and gotten nothing. The blonde had very little to say to him, in between green-faced gulps and the hurried trip to the bathroom, she gave useless responses.

"So, um, this Dwayne fella…" Gulp. "He was at the bar last night?" Gulp.

Sam stared, with righteously placed frustration, and the hand that covered the woman's mouth.

"Yes. You were flirting with him the other night."

She looked away, trying to recall a Dwayne.

"Sorry, bucko. Doesn't ring a bell. I don't know any…_Dwaynes._"

Sam turned away, trying to make his head stop spinning. There was only one motel in own, so he might have gone home with some other chick. Even then, his cell would be on. Dean was always looking for an excuse to bolt, and Sam had spent too many phone calls pretending to be Dean's ailing grandmother or his paranoid great-aunt.

No. Dean was in trouble. Sam had no clue where to start, though. He might have gotten himself thrown into jail. That was a plausible explanation.

Leaving the hung over tramp, he headed towards the police station.

In a strange twist of fate, the office was closed. Nothing moved in the darkened building, and there was a note on the door that read-

**Investigation Pending. If it is an emergency, Call Sal.**

Cursing, Sam slumped onto a bench. Dean was gone, and he had left no trail to follow. Sam had failed, and Dean was gone. The cops were out for lunch, apparently. If anything was going to be done, it was left to Sam to do it.


	10. Part 10

Dean could hear the birds outside, mocking him with their incessant chirping.

The woman next to him rocked slowly from one foot to the other, straining to keep her balance in the dimly lit room.

It smelled of blood down here, blood and candles. Incense, maybe.

No. No more maybe's. Damn, this could not be less comfortable. His arms, elevated above his head, were chained to a rusted bit of metal that twisted down from the ceiling to meet his hands. His wrists were chaffed and bleeding, swelling slightly from the work required to keep them aloft.

He let his head hang down, trying to make out the design that surrounded him. It stretched out beneath him, carved into the floor in an eerily familiar pattern. He arched his back, trying to pop his spine and make the ache there vanish. That only sparked a wave of white-hot pain spreading down his back and through his chest, mind-numbing and a horrific pick-me-up.

The woman wrenched herself around to look him in the face, shadows obscuring most of her features.

"You alright?" she asked in a hushed tone, almost a whisper.

"I'll live" he groaned, lifting his head and shooting her a half-baked smile. She cocked her head cynically and raised her eyebrows.

"You must not know who these people are."

"Oh, and you do?" He spat at her. She shrugged and turned away. This wasn't the best approach. "Fine. Who are they?"

"Murderous pack of miserable sons of bitches. Pigs, the lot of 'em."

"Oh _that's all_. I thought you were going to say something important. Something that might help us. Freaking civilians." he muttered at her.

They were interrupted by the thump of steel-toed boots on the wooden steps. A large man trumped down the stairs, his oafish face contorted into a grimace, somewhat related to a smile. A rusted-together gun sat on his shoulder, as if he was a pirate with a menacing mechanical parrot. He glanced over Dean brusquely, clearly excited. As he turned to the other occupant, his grimace become the most scaringly overjoyed snarl that Dean had ever seen. He approached her, reaching out to run a lock of her hair through his gnarly fingers. She flinched, notably disgusted by his almost caressing touch.

"Lexi." he traced the line of her collarbone, leaning in to breathe on her neck. "Last I saw you, there was the better part of the Iron Age wedged in you chest." he pulled back jerkingly, dragging the coffee-colored curl with him. Chuckling gently, he took her in, his hungry eyes devouring every inch of her exposed skin.

Now, this guy could have been John McCain's babysitter. Dean nearly let that one rip, but his instinct, dull as it was so early in the morning after such a late night, warned him against it. He had a private moment of triumphant laughter in his head, but was rudely interrupted by the scent that caught at his nose. The stench that followed the walking, talking fossil made Dean gag inwardly, as well as a slight bit on the outside. Luckily, the man was too enthralled with the lady, who busied herself spitting venom in her own, silent way.

Her eyes grew cold, she slumped into repose, and the ageless veteran slipped one arm about her waist, finding her shoulder and letting his mouth drop from Dean's view, which was unnerving enough. But dean had rthe advantage of seeing her face fall, eyes searching the ceiling for deliverance. She closed up, becoming nothing more than a statue, dead to the world in that moment.

One swift hand fumbled with the hem of her shirt, and she snapped back.

Her leg shot up, kneeing him in the crotch, shaking him off in a swivel of her hips. Anger filled her face, sending another wrathfully painful kick in his direction.

He collapsed, mouth agape in pain.

A fleeting smile strut across her face before reverting back to the stone-edged silence that had claimed her originally.

Looking past the crumpled heap on the ground, Dean sighed in relief. He had no intention of being responsible for a rape, much less being present for it.

She looked to him, a guilty expressing having made its way into her features, giving her a haunting appearance. He just smiled sympathetically, nodding at the crumpled mass at her feet.

"You don't think he had a set of keys, do you?"


	11. Part 11

Sam decided to retrace his steps and go back to the last place where he'd gotten a solid lead- The Rosewood Cemetery. Going over every individual headstone was all that he could think of at this point, and it was really more for him than for Dean. There was very little chance that anything could be accomplished by this, but it let him feel like he was doing something.

Just about everybody in this town had gone crazy, or missing, and he liked the peace that the graveyard offered. He realized that most people found such places disturbing, but he was a Winchester. Winchesters could find comfort in even the stormiest night. Sam just wished that he didn't have to do this alone.


	12. Part 12

She slipped her feet into the pocket of his jacket, rummaging around until she emerged with a ring of keys between her toes. Tossing them up with a flick of her leg, she caught them in her teeth. Dean raised one eyebrow warily, unsure whether he should applaud or heckle.

"Be careful with that." was his safest choice.

She tossed them into her open hands, fumbling with the lock until she was free.

"Why do you have to be so tall?" she mumbled, stretching to reach the handcuffs.

"You should see my brother." He balked as she brushed up against him. "I don't usually get this kind of attention until after sundown." He gave her a sarcastic smile, and she returned it with a crippled grunt.

"That's just _wonderful_ for you." she was polite enough to fake her way into a smile, turning until they heard the metallic _click_ of the lock.

He rubbed his swollen wrists as the cuffs came down, trying to casually look her over for anything that creep might have done.

"I'll live" she echoed his sentiment, kneeling over the subdued would-be rapist. Dean just wanted to kick the scumbag. But, he supposed that she had the more logical approach and simply let his anger loose on the camouflage jacket that draped over the _useless freaking lump of wrinkly, perverted flesh_.

He was delightfully indelicate with the contents of his pockets, though it was all he could do not to kill the mothersucking pig.

"If you rough him up too much, he'll wake up and we'll be caught ."

"Yeah, well…I don't see how you're okay with this."

She shot him an abysmally finished look, still trying to make sense of the junk that littered the upper layer of the trash.

Digging through one pit of a pocket, Dean found a stale pizza crust and a magazine that could have been from the last century. And some denture cleaner, in the handy dissolvable form. And a cough drop. And a braided, bloody lock of hair. Pervert.

"This. Is. Disgusting."

"Doesn't matter. Found what I needed" she held up a small jackknife, and pair of scissors, and bullets for the parrot-gun.

"Why do we need those? We can pry open that window if we're careful enough about it."

Blinking twice, as if hers was the most normal response in the world, she replies in a calm, controlled tone.

"Because I'm going up there."

"No."

"What?"

"You have no chance. Let's get out of here, so we can regroup, let somebody know what's going on here. If you go up there, you're only giving those Satanists another shot."

"Satanists?" She was close to laughing. Even her eyes lit up at the absurdity of his comment. "_That's_ what you think they are?"

"…"

The echo of a giggle crept through her lips, quickly stifled by an oh-so-subtle cough.

"Why don't _you_ try and fit through that window. I'll come back and pry you out of there. Promise."

"The you wait here. I've been in situations like this before, I can handle it."

"_You_ can handle it?" She narrowed her eyes, gracing him with a cold, calculating glare, as if she was weighing his actions against his words. Whatever conclusion she came to, it was not in his favor. "No. Unlike you, _I_ was conscious when they dragged me here. If you're brother can help, that's great. Until we can get to him, however, I'm going to need you to back off."

"Gimme the bullets. You're in no condition to-"

"Shut up, please." she flashed him a contorted smile, tossing him the gun as she turned away. They trudged up the wooden stairs, Dean loading the shotgun as quietly as possible, under the circumstances.

Turning the handle, he braced himself. This was not a good idea.

--Author's Note--

It's not my best but i need to get on with it.

Reviews are like hugs- i can't ever have too many.


	13. Dogs Barking, Can't Fly Without Umbrella

Dustin was rudely awakened by the incessant howlings of Beast, the overgrown lapdog that had long ago decided to park his lardo butt in front of the door leading to the basement. He made a terrific guard dog, and an even better doorstop.

He had never heard that dog make more than a distressed whimper, even when his dinner was late. It sounded like the devil himself had dropped by for a house call, but Dustin found that hard to believe.

Dropping his magazine with great annoyance (with a side of reluctance and a bowl full of nasty), he finds the old bulldog rooted to the mat laid out for him, spitting everything but fire into the doorway.

"Beast! Damn dog, Beast!" He was on the verge of going back for the magazine to give him a solid smack on the nose when he doorknob turned. "You ruthless bastard." he chuckled, wondering if the old man had gone down to look in on the prisoners. Malcolm was one hell of a freak, even in this crowd. The pervert had once been a member of the clergy, until he devoted himself to The Practice. Dustin had attended his sermons as a child, where he had the following instilled in him. Most guys his age went to college, worrying about grades and girls. Here, grades were nonexistent and girls came easily. That was something Mal had taught him in one of the more personal lessons they'd shared.

"Are you still obsessing over that girl? Malley, it was just another girl. Am I right?" He the mutt's collar, not wanting his favorite elderly to fall victim to Beast's grumpy side. Whatever had stained his shirt must smell like heaven, because the dumb freakin' dog was about to pummel him down the stairs to get at it.

There was a woman in the doorway, matching Mal's description to the letter. It wasn't until later that he recognized her, because his vision was obscured by the barrel of a shotgun trained on his forehead.


	14. Part 14

Slumped against a hideous angelic headstone, Sam was at a loss. The cherubim that rested on the stone slab was more creepy than peaceful, staring into the earth with dull, crusted-over eyes. Moss was spread over his wings, winding up his arms and into his face, obscuring what Sam thought had to be a toothless, decrepit half-smile. He's spent five hour, _five goddamned hours, _pacing the cemetery, patrolling the outer perimeter, lost in a hopeless loop. Eventually, he'd dropped into the least overgrown section of the graveyard and gone over everything that they knew. He could count the facts on one hand, and that was not something Sam took pride in. Wasn't he supposed to be the one with all the answers? Now, he feared that he was too late.

--

Marie wandered through the misty rows of resting places, trying to remember which plots were the empty ones. She came to this place, armed with a shovel, a torch, and a decision. Malcolm had always been an easy drunk, and happy to tell her his life story. It had mostly been composed of fairly tales and heroic misadventures that mimicked those of Sinbad or Popeye, but he had slipped a few gems into the mix. One legend he told truthfully was that of a woman from beyond the shores of this country. She had the makings of a princess, he said, but was raised by children of the Devil. He'd tried to claim her in the name of God, but had been spurned by the woman's Satanic guardians.

This, coming from a man who was, remarkably, well into his nineties, could be hard to swallow. But there were facts to fish out the fiction, and that left Marie with a pretty good idea of what had really gone down.

Malcolm had no luck with the devil worshippers, but he also had another young man at his disposal. Seth, the son of the local drunk, had drawn her out into the woods to learn the truth. She convinved him of the most improbable things, the most volatile ideas. Throwing aside the bible, the church, the beliefs that he had clung to for so long, he turned to her family for guidance. He became one of them, and lost himself to the silver-tongued devil herself.

That was when the disappearances began, when the good people of Cameron saw what they were really up against. The devil's first line troops, masked by beauty and cunning, had settled in their little mountain town, disturbing the peace that had been so commonplace before their evil had stained the records of Cameron's history. They banded together and solved the problem, becoming devoted to the cause, the witchtrials and devil-burnings, the honor of the sacred tasks falling on the most qualified, good priest Malcolm.

He maintained that, though the evil bitch was dead, had been for over 60 years, her grave was empty. Her body had vanished along with the last trace of evil in Cameron, had dissipated before his very eyes. The only proof that Marie needed was in plot 24, the one without a headstone. If it was true that there had been no body to bury, she would take the pledge and go off with Dustin. If there was so much as a collarbone in the ground, she would leave and never give them a second glance.

She pounded the shovel into the soft earth, unaware of a desperate pair of eyes peering at her from behind a molded-over concrete angel.

--Author's note--

Reviews make my day.


	15. Part 15

Dean sat before the scrawny youth, hoping that the girl had found his cell phone. There was nothing electronic in the house, no computers, no monitors, not even a heater. A fire blazed in the ancient stove, but the warmth didn't travel much farther than the beaten-up couch. The mutt was out cold on the rug, which they had dragged into the other room.

This kid, Dustin, was a nervous train wreck. He cried a little, cursing at the woman that accompanied Dean. Called her names in Swedish, or Dutch, or something of the like. She'd replied, way too calmly to be entirely sane, with a curse (He assumed) in the same guttural language.

Dean glanced over the various magazines and articles that were scattered on top of the rickety table. Skin mags, mostly, but there was the occasional gaming manual or computer printout mixed it. Picking through one, he raised his eyebrows and looked at Nerdboy. Not an ounce of regret in him, Dean turned back to the crumpled pages.

"Oh, _lovely._ That's all we need." she tossed him the phone, taking hold of the offending items between two fingers and dropped them unceremoniously in the garbage. Fumbling with the buttons, he dialed Sam's number.

"Sam. We're…somewhere. In a house."

"Very helpful, Dean. I have a lead, and -" Sam crackled through the bad reception, cut off by Dean's pride and a sudden rush of anxiety. "I've got a better one."

"How do you know?" Sam sounded hurt.

"Because I'm here, Sam. This is where it all went down."

She let out a snort, smirking as she checked the knots binding Dustin. She received glares from both parties.

"Who was that?"

"Nobody."

"Didn't sound like nobody."

"So what's you news, Sam?"

"Smooth. Real sophisticated."

"Sam."

"Right. So, Marie, the graveyard chick-"

"Graveyard chick?"

"Shut up. She's part of this…cult. The Following or something."

"What are they into?"

"Witch hunting, mainly."

"Great. I bet we looked like walking targets."

"They go after people with…certain qualities."

"Like…"

"Like witches, Dean. People with 'the calling'. There are people who claim to have Sight, who see people that don't belong and follow them."

"What kind of qualities?"

"It could be anything. A sign, a pretty face. She even admitted that some of the guys are just…"

"What?"

"Well, horny."

Dean nearly exploded into the phone.

"HORNY? They kidnap, kill, rape, torture because they're hard up for action? Areyoufreakingkiddingme?"

"Straight from the horse's mouth, Dean."

"…twisted freakshow of a town."

Dustin reacted to that, growling through the duct tape that she'd plastered onto his face. "You know I'm right." Dean shot at him, letting that deep, menacing rasp creep into his voice, watching for a reaction. Dustin settled, rocking back into the cushions, as if he could escape Dean's wrath by hiding in the overgrown duffle bag passing itself off as a couch.

"So, where are you again?"

"I'll call you back."


	16. Part 16

Marie showed Sam to their house, more than willing to tell him that she wanted no part in this. She was only interested in the truth. Sam, unconvinced by her sugar-coated words, shoved her along. It was dark now, the streetlights emitting a cool glow over the snow-covered ground. He risked a glance at his watch, reading the time as 10:09.

"I was raised this way, Sal."

"Sam."

"Oh. Right." she flashed her innocent, glamorous smile his way. "Look, mister." She reminded Sam of a cornered bear, making herself bigger as if that might scare away a starving coyote. "I've done some things that I ain't proud of, but at least I've got dignity."

"Dignity?" Sam snorted maliciously. "Where is the dignity in killing? Maiming? Torture?"

"I didn't have anything to do with that" she burst, perhaps the first honest thing she's told him. She retracted almost instantly, hesitantly, as if the words were suddenly foreign to her. "I'm not a perfect little princess, but that doesn't make me a monster."

"What does that make you?"

She breathed deeply.

"Somebody who screwed up, ok?"

Sam leaned in tenderly, realizing that she was being very open for a devil-worshipper.

"You can fix this by helping me find my brother."

Her face went blank, as if his words had melted some sort of barrier between her and the real world.

"We've really been hurting people, haven't we?" she asked in a hushed, stupefied tone.

Sam almost socked her one then and there. After a few seconds had passed, and his stunned expression gave way to a more understanding frown, he answered.

"Yes. Yes you have." He had to contort his voice to hide his surprise. _She really didn't know. _

Slipping from his shadow, she walked on, stumbling through a dream of her own, deeply disturbing world. Sam let her lead a few paces ahead, knowing how hard it is to wrap your head around an unfamiliar life. It was like Stanford all over again. Except, Sam hadn't been a killer or a rapist. Just an outsider.


	17. Part 17

Dean didn't notice the unearthly silence until it bubbled up inside him, ripping his common sense to shreds. He hated to hang up on Sam, but Dustin had just about imploded. A sense of triumph loomed around him, and his eyes peered warily at the doorway behind Dean.

A single, deafening creak broke the fragile stillness. The muffled sound of boots scraping at the old, wooden floor snapped Dean out of his stupor.

Ducking and rolling behind the rough excuse for a coffee table, he got a good look at what stood behind him.

It was the old man from downstairs, but more menacing the second time around. He grizzly beard was wet with blood, staining his face with the most horrifying, topsy-turvy glare. Surveying the scene slowly, as if he hadn't noticed Dean's tuck-and-roll tactic, he waddled over to Dustin and ripped the duct tape from the boy's mouth.

"There, sir. Get 'im!" he exclaimed breathily, like he couldn't get the air soon enough. Unfortunately, his arms were still secured by an arsenal of the sticky stuff, and all he could do was nod heartily.

"I am not a dog, Dusty. I do not take orders." The old man grunted. Leaning down, ignoring the desperate cracks released from a rusty spinal cord reaching its limit, he looked Dean in the eye. "A Winchester!" he cocked a smile in favor of his guest. "It's been too long." The eyes that stared Dean down were a terrible omen for Dean. They spoke of bloodshed and slaughter.

"Do I know you?" Dean tried to offer up a witty grin to back his fearless comment, but found that it didn't reach his face.

"Maybe. But you know my Alexa, yes?"

Dean's mind was on shutdown. Alexa? No…

Reading his expression, Malcolm wasn't particularly surprised. "She's a wily little one, that's to be sure. My girl. Somewhere in this house, I expect." he groaned as he tried to regain his composure. These long years had not been kind to him.

"Ummmmmmmmmmmmm…"

Blinking, the man recovered his thoughts. "Yes. That's right." he looked towards the younger of the three and blinked once, flashing black sparks in his eyes.

"OhgodnomygodnoIT WASNT ME!" he shrieked, invisible claws clutched at his face, his body writhing in torment.

"That's nice." Malcolm spun back to Dean, leering at him through the table legs. "Stay down. I won't be a minute."

A sweeping pressure forced Dean from his hunched position and into a flat mat-like pose. It felt like a hippo was lounging on his chest, and his face showed it.

Malcolm cackled choppily, trumping towards the stairs as Dustin gasped for his last, fleeting breaths. Dean would have screamed a warning, but he couldn't muster the energy to do more than gurgle, tasting blood.


	18. Part 18

_I'm sorry that this took so long- starting school back up has been an ordeal. I'll try to be more regular about it, but this is the best i can do for now. _

_This was written in the dead of night, so I can't vouch for the quality._

Sam was unsure of what kept him back- Marie was a liability at this point. Reluctant to leave her behind, he dragged her into the house where Dean was supposed to be. She slumped back, head bowed in shame. Rosemary littered the overgrown yard, filling Sam's nose with the audacious smell. A gargantuan tree swept over the house, shrouding it from a detailed view. All was dark, and no sound escaped those sturdy brick walls. Sam was reminded of the story of the three little pigs, where he would be the wolf. He had to remind himself that these were dirty scum pigs to stop the smile that crept through his face. Marie scuffed the dirt.

This is it?" he'd expected something more…unnerving. This was a tiny place, with two floors and a cellar. She nodded curtly, motioning towards the door.

"I didn't lock it when I left. Mal should be asleep and Dusty is probably jacking off in the back room." Her eyes never left her shoes, as if it was too much effort to look Sam in the face for once.

He squirmed at her honesty, and wasn't quite sure that he liked where that could lead. Bowing, he swung his hand towards the door, offering up a sarcastic tone that his older brother would have been proud of.

"You first, madame."

She deadpanned her way to the door, shrugging off Sam's stinging remark. The porch creaked beneath them and rocked the heavy oak door almost off its rust hinges.

Sam cried out at the horror that greeted them.

Caught in his last throes of agony, a howl of pain and fear left fresh and unuttered on his lips, Dustin was strewn across the farthest edge of the room, soaking in the ruby pool surrounding him.

Sam's mouth hung agape, while Marie clung the doorknob for support.

Dean groaned from behind the couch, slipping a few swears in for good measure. Sam was beside him now, mopping at the blood with his coat sleeve.

"Upstairs" Dean managed to gurgle, groping for Sam's jacket and attention. "Sammy-" he tried again, "Demon. Evil sonnuva-" Dean uttered a watery gasp, "Some seriously scary shit."

"Sentences good." Sam teased nervously, glancing up at Marie and mouthing some offhand comforts. "It's good that's he's aiming for sentences."

Dean caught that and haphazardly shoved him.

"Some girl's up there with him." Dean had spit up most of the blood that had coated the inside of his mouth, spewing it over his clothes and the unfortunate upholstery. "Help me up."

Sam obliged, checking him over with as much haste as he could manage. "I'm fine. Dustin…" he waved his arm in the general direction, not sure if there was any explanation needed. Marie averted her eyes, sickened by the carnage.

"Upstairs. Now." Dean barked orders, suddenly reminded of what lurked above them. Sam rushed to the stairs, beckoning to Marie to follow. Dean left one lingering glance for Dustin before bringing up the rear. If this was a demon, they were going to need every advantage that they could manage.

_Reviews are welcome- even if you hate it and urge me into an early retirement, I'd like to know. Thanks!_


	19. Part 18 and a half

_Blood-red rubies dripped from her lips, silhouetting the chasm ripped though her chest by the knife thrust in the wall. The hilt, buried so deep in her ribs, glistened with malicious, thirsty eyes. She slumped, inches above the floor, hair intertwined with the fingers that caressed her head, her dying eyes. He spoke to her in halting German, muttering broken promises in a state of exaltation. What he'd once seen in her, what he had hoped was to come. Malcolm gazed at her through eyes that had seen hell, in its tortures and wonders, and come back to feast upon her face. It was like coming through a fire to find an angel waiting for you. He'd missed those eyes._


	20. Part 19

Sam muttered a curse as he stumbled in the dark hall. A sliver of light shone a few meters before him, leading him to a battered oak door. Left slightly ajar, he could see a muddled figure leaning into a mangled woman, head bowed deeply, her hands stretched over the knife that held her there. Blood was splattered over virtually everything in sight, tinted in an eerie wine-colored glow. Sam flinched back, suddenly aware of his churning, empty stomach. Marie let loose a strangled gasp, backing farther from the door. Her eyes were wide with fear and tinged with guilt. She had no idea…

Dean pushed ahead, surveying the scene with cold, detached eyes. If he let his emotions rule him now, they were all screwed. Sam was doubled over, trying to contain his nausea. Marie had fled back to the landing, cowering behind the umbrella stand. Dean motioned to her, fumbling for his keys.

"You know where Sam parked the car, right?" She nodded shakily. "In the trunk, there should be an old-fashioned pistol," he whispered, wary of the old man in the next room. "Bring that and the sawed-off. Grab as much ammo as you can, ok?" She nodded again, turning to do as she was told. Dean risked another glance at the two figures, noticing a swift flick in her pose- the slender fingers tensed around the hilt, eyelids fluttering softly, a whispery breath flooding the silence. Malcolm didn't seem to be all that coherent at the moment, as he kept stuttering through a Germanic prayer. "Helluva second wind" he muttered, eyeing the demon.

He was tempted to pray. Just kneel down and pray for God to strike down this hellish pawn, to cut him a break, just one fucking break, and let that girl live.

But no. That wasn't how He worked. It was only a mockery, taunting him with the fake promise of deliverance. Nothing was left but to wait for Marie to bring him the colt…


	21. Part 20

_Eyes as black a the deepest pit. _

_Heart the hardest stone. _

_Soul as dark as an ancient crypt, _

_Best leave him alone._

She'd sputtered through that awkward rhyme as a child, never really sure what it had meant. Mal had taught it to her when she was still very young, too young to understand what it would eventually mean to her.

The children's ditty rang though Marie's head ominously as she stumbled through the pale, daftly innocent world. She had decided against finding that stupid gun- What a shithead. _Guns don't kill demons_ she mumbled to herself. 

Somewhere in the darkness, there was a shed with everything she would need. There were texts that she'd poured over with Dustin on dreary nights like this. They'd chanted in Latin, finding the rhythms of the words as they spilled out into the real world. It was nothing to her now, just spidery entries inscribed on yellowing paper, dying wisps of the passing ages. The beauty of the syllables remained, etched forever in her mind. 

Marie brushed the biting snow from the munchkin-sized tin door, fumbling with the metal lock. There was an oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling, drenching the room in a raw, earthy light. Books were strewn in parched piles, tattered volumes lay dusting in every nook and cranny of the cramped space.

Marie swept one of the ornate covers fondly, taking a solitary moment for Dustin. He'd been a dweeb, but… he was _her_ dweeb. 

This demon was going to pay for what it'd done to Dustin. For what it might do to Sam…and whatshisface. Danny. Dwayne. Dirk. Whatever.

Slinging a heavy green book in the crook of her arm, fumbling for her rosary beads and a heavy-looking candlestick, she left the place to rot. Why go back there when there was her whole life waiting for her, just around the corner?


	22. part 21

Dean grumbles back and forth, crushing his hands behind his back A weak nudge sends the floor into a torrent of creaks and groans, snapping the brothers into an abrupt silence. Dean stops his pacing, eyeing his fervent path.

Leaden footsteps arc across the opposite room, and Sam is falling into the empty rhythm of Malcolm's heavy tread. His hand reaches around the corner, snapping at the air where Dean's head was moments ago.

It flies before him- Sam racing over, reaching for anything that might come away with a bruise or a mark. Dean ducks, crashing into the all-too-solid form of the demon's torso on his way down. Sam's rush gives him the edge, and he scuffles with Malcolm's stumpy legs before a heavy hand comes down on his collar.

"Enough." The demon's eyes speak volumes, loathing and passion molded into chaos and darkness. "I've made my peace. She is what I came here for, what I've wasted these years searching-" A flying candlestick lets loose along with a howl of agony from the older man, releasing Dean and Sam spattered with the old man's blood.

Steam erupts from the wound, a tiny point just below his eyes. Marie explodes in from behind them, a fiery jet of fury and disdain.

"WASTED?!" She cries, heart in pieces on the floor. "ALL THESE YEARS _WASTED_?" Sam catches himself trying to reach her. _The book,_ he thinks. He sees Latin scribbled on the withered pages, an old chant scribbled in spidery cursive.

Malcolm is still wrestling with his burning flesh, face contorted in the torment of the searing metal. Inscribed on it is an amalgam of symbols, arranged around a makeshift ankh. Water dribbles down the side, acid on his fragile skin.


	23. Part 22

_I'm sorry, i can't end a chapter to save my life. I'll have more next week, I promise._

Warm blood drips beneath Dean's hand and a sickly taste had settled on his tongue. Marie is a mass of flailing limbs and incomprehensible words. Sam scrambles around them, clutching a rotting green book. He reaches a flickering lamp and begins to read where Marie had left off.

Dean leaps to his feet, fighting the blackness that threatens his eyesight.

"Enough!" the demon barks, rearing his ugly head in a makeshift roar. Marie chokes on a sullen vowel, coughing and sputtering into a resigned silence. Sam continues to mutter, subtle enough that Malcolm doesn't seem to notice.

Dean can almost hear a murky ripping sound from behind him, a whispered _thump_, can almost see the reflecting shine of metal and light. The demon rose, groaning into a hunchbacked position. Is it too late to check? This must be in his imagination.

Sam glances up at him then, trying to decipher Dean's mixed expression. Marie is aflame with rage, silent and fuming. Malcolm turns on her, giving Dean the spare second he needed and spins.

Too fast, he realizes, and he rams right into the wall. His head is bobbing and he muffles a painful gasp as it clots in his throat. The figure ahead of him is slumped over on the floor, a mask of concentration is smeared across her delicate features. She is sharp in his blurred vision, and the knife lays at her feet in a hideous puddle of crimson.

Marie dug her nails into his face, leaving three perfect lines running across his cheek. The demon threw out his hands, shoving her into the wall. Her head rested on her shoulder at a sickening angle. He turned on Sam, who still sputtered through the Latin.

A swift blur whizzed past Dean, sinking into a long-cold body. Malcolm paused, abruptly spinning to face them. Alexa stood now, tattered and mangled in the dim light. Dean saw the knife protruding from the demon's back, a sliver of crimson lining the wound. Sam's frail voice grew louder, and a hum could be felt in the frigid winter air. Malcolm didn't seem to move, eyes forced on the small figure that strode towards him. Standing between him and Dean, she lifted her face to his, smiling viciously. The demon reached out to her, panting from the strain of her glare. Sam's volume peaked, fighting the voracious hum that deafened them to Malcolm's gentle words.

His mouth filled with a vile smoke, seeping into the open air. Sam clamped the book shut, an undeniable look of triumph spreading his lips into a sad smile. Dean reached for the woman's outstretched hand, pulling himself into a stance.

Sam leaned over Marie, holding two fingers over her wrist, searching for a pulse. He raised his head, shaking it slowly. Dean reached down to close her eyes, torn between cracking a smile and just walking away. He chose to wipe the blood from the corner of her mouth.


	24. Part 23

_There was a huge mistake in the last part- so forget the dejavu and shoot me next time I do that._

_like I mentioned earlier, it's late when i write. really late._

_Thanks!_

Sam stares the other women down and ogles the gash torn in her chest. White bone shines through the crimson mess, a threatening beacon. She matches his glare with a heavy-lidded tilt of her head.

She's impossibly thin, he thinks. Impossibly sharp, like all the angles of her face have been blurred into a painfully rough sketch. Impossibly pale. Impossibly _alive_.

Dean stands with his head bowed, and Sam follow suit. He turns to her, nodding hesitantly.

Blood is spilling, tear by tear, from her lips and she wiped the droplets onto her skeleton-fingers, staring as if she wasn't entirely sure how it had wound up there. Sam was too preoccupied with the blaringly painful hole in her torso to notice.

Dean could hear a rustle and a small crack when she raised her head to flash a carefully sealed smile in the brothers' direction. She offers her hand to him stiffly and mumbles softly. It comes out as a low hush of words that Dean doesn't catch.

"Hmm?"

"I never got your name." she raises her voice slightly.

Dean motioned to Sam, muttered a brief introduction, and turned on her expectantly.

"Alexa," she looked away brusquely, as if she were ashamed of the word. She finally snapped at Sam, being overly clear as to where he was looking. Crossing her arms firmly over her chest, she fixed him with calculating stare.

Dean tugged at Sam's jacket, nudging him away. Alexa doesn't seem to care, or even notice. She stares at them blankly, mopping at her wound mindlessly.

"Are you thinking? Are you even _conscious?_" Sam pushed his words at Dean.

"I think she's a spirit, or a zombie…If we take her to her grave, maybe-or her home. Something that will jar her back…"

"Are…you…delusional?" he spat. "That is idiocy."

"Got any bright ideas, wise guy?"

"Got any cheesier lines for me, Dean?"

"Just follow my lead."

"Oh, _that's_ original."

But Alexa had already retreated downstairs, fumbling with a tattered black jacket that had escaped the bloodbath. It smelled of cat hair and shoe polish, but it was better than the stares she got from the brothers.

_What am I supposed to tell them?_

Her chest throbbed with a cold, numb ache. Oddly enough, it just felt _wet_.

Dean was at a loss-Sam was right. There wasn't much for the to do.

_It's not like I'm gonna tell __**him**__ that. And what are we supposed to do- waste her?_

"Maybe she's a demon," Sam ruffled closer as Dean trumped down the stairs.

"Maybe she's a new species of plant life. Maybe she's a slimy green alien with android parts. Maybe she's actually a cyborg on a secret mission to help her evil pie-stealing race to conquer earth." Sarcasm dripped form every pore of his speech. "Point is we just have to find out."

Sam stood on the last step, eyes widening to a strange, comically horrified expression.

"So what, you're going to _ask_ her?"

Dean answer, just flashed Sam an 'ive-got-this-under-control' smile and turned to the front door that swung open on its hinges. Alexa stood in the snow, waiting for them.


	25. Part 24

Alexa slipped away from the bickering couple, taking solace in the silent, frozen landscape.

She could remember playing in the treetops with the other small children, so very long ago. Closing her eyes, she could almost smell her mother's fragrant perfume, her father's scruffy hands covered in the remains of hard day's work.

Home wasn't far, just a short trek up the mountain. Outside of the little town of Cameron, there was an ancient dirt road that lay in the shadow of the forest. The snow never melted away completely, and the house that it led to had long since been forgotten by the people of Cameron.

Alexa never recalled those first years after her death fondly- This new life was a Hell of her own creation. Those zealots had run them out of town, cursing and wailing.

_And they left me behind_.

Sam called out to her, a note of worry clung to his voice. She turned back to them, and he beckoned for her to come.

"It's not far." she called. "I can walk." She sounded frail and tiny in the frosty woodland. Even she didn't believe herself.

"You're coming with us" Dean rumbled. He left no room for argument. With a sweeping motion, he ushered her into the glossy car, while he and Sam played jester.

_Apparently I'm a three-year-old. Am I so very hopeless that even __**these two**__ pity me?_

Dean watched as Alexa fumbled with the rags that covered her skeletal frame in the back seat. Her being there didn't unnerve him as much as he thought it would, but Sam was going out of his tiny mind.

"Not so sure now, are 'ya Sam?"

"Shuddup" Sam murmured. They stared at her through the back mirror as the Impala roared to a start.

She caressed the dark leather mindlessly, looking grayer and grayer as the sun slipped over the white-rimmed mountains.

Dean nudged the sleek black car out of the snow and onto the dirt road. He groaned at every jolt his baby took. Alexa shared a quirky smile with Sam, more surprising than beautiful. This seemed to calm Sam's frayed nerves, after the beating that he'd taken. in the depth of his mind he still wondered over their sudden loss of all common sense.

One voice, sounding suspiciously like John, continually told him to blow her away.

"No good can come of this, Sam." John wheedled. She looked too out-of-place here, too vulnerable. It would be like shooting a deer lost in a hedge maze.

"She's dead already, long dead. Let her rest." his father soothed him. Sam waited for that other voice to pop up.

"Mom's on her lunch break, kid."


	26. Part 25

A dingy bar stood out in the darkness, and Dean was in dire need of a drink. Sam huffed, but Alexa made no complaints.

Maybe this will make more sense if I'm drunk.

The 'Crow Bar' was situated right next to a cheap motel, and Dean hated driving in this windblown, snowstorm darkness. _What are we going to do with this chick?_

Sam was prying something out of her, but his heart wasn't in it. She eyed him suspiciously, and was probably plotting her escape. It wasn't as if Dean could blame her.

"Beer." Dean grunted to snap Sam out of his query. "Now." he looked back at Alexa. She could pass as normal, a quick smile would get them through the door. Maybe they could get this over with. "You're welcome to get plastered, too."

A flicker of life danced across her eyes as she walked towards the bar. A bottle of scotch would be heaven. Alexa longed for the calm buzz that fell over her after a tall drink.

Sam decided to leave the idiocy to his brother.

_I don't care anymore. She could be a puss-spewing mutant and it would not bother me._


	27. Part 26

Alexa rifled through her pockets and pulled out a crumpled bill. She actually looked quite nice in the dim light. She stood taller and looser, scanning the place for an inconspicuous seat.

The bar was virtually empty that morning, just after dawn. Dean was surprised that it was open at all. A monstrous-looking barkeep scrubbed filthy mugs, but only spread the dirt from cup to cup. A man sat at his own table, gawking at his companion. He was rat like, as if he might open his jacket and offer them a watch. A solemn, middle-aged crone stooped over a very tall glass of bourbon, too drunk to look up, but just short of a teary breakdown.

Alexa tracked down a small, secluded booth and fell into the soft, although torn, cushion. Dean followed suit, anxious for his beer.

"You could have at least feigned subtlety," She said, clearly and borderline sarcastic.

"Yeah?" he cocked one eyebrow quizzically, allowing silence to fall over them as the barman brought them their drinks. His hand were just as grimy as the rags that he wiped the glasses with, and he stared without reserve at the odd couple. She offered him a warm smile, turning back to Dean.

"Little early for scotch, isn't it?" he nodded at her order, a full, round bottle.

"So the time's ripe for a beer, then?" She matched his tone perfectly, taking a swig of her drink. She spoke with a touch of confidence, which transformed her voice into something low and rough, almost gleeful in the depths of this health inspector's nightmare. "Since you've dragged me here, it's only fair that you play by the rules."

"How 'bout you tell me what I want to know, then I'll be the target. Alight, Alexa?"

She kept a deceptive smile plastered on her face, but Dean could see past that. She was resigned to this. She had to be.

"May I set one thing straight?"

Dean nodded. "I'm not a threat to you." she dismissed his reply with a flick of her head. "I've also never answered to Alexa. It's not as if it matters, anymore, I guess" She trailed off in a thoughtful pause.

"Anymore?"

She puzzled over this for a minute, dark strands of hair tumbling over her shoulder and onto the table.

"It's been a long time, Dean." She shifted nervously. "It's not as if things like that matter after this long."

"Exactly how long are you talking?" Dean held his breath while she sketched an imaginary number line over the smooth wood table.

"Sixteeeeeee…nine. I think." She took on a frustrated glare.

"Since…"

"He killed me." she mumbled, watching his face for a hint of comprehension.

"Who killed you?"

"Take a wild guess."

_Author's note_

_Reviews make my day. I don't want to have to release the hounds. _


	28. Sam

Sam fumbled with a half-empty bottle of holy water.

Something bothered him about her- she wasn't _human_. She couldn't be.

_Monster._

Sam knew what that was like. To have something evil inside you. It bubbled inside him, yearning to reveal he other side of life- the side where games were deadly and fun was sinister. He saw it in her- she enjoyed shadowplay, the darkness that could shroud her, majestic and free. There were days when it scared him- terrifying evil, just beyond the edge of his vision. It was all he could do to silence tat lie that rang in his head, disguised as his father, as Dean, as himself. It had to be a lie- didn't it?

_Horrible._

She represented everything he'd hid from Dean, from himself. She must have given in to the whispering council, to live to see Malcolm's downfall. To bring him down herself.

Sam couldn't let her go- how could anyone be taken in by that thin, lying smile? She hid behind it, a distraught mask meant to cover her inner demon. Her inner_ monster._

_Demon._

Only to be vanquished. Killed. Nothing was more important than the hunt.

_Just like dad. If you're not careful, you'll end up like him. Paranoid. Trigger-happy. Demon-crazed._

_Alone.  
_

Sam, with his bottle of holy water and tricks that Dean would never believe, clenched his jaw and gripped the doorhandle. Alexa was holding the door open for Dean, laughing as he led her out into the bare morning light.

_My turn._


	29. Scattered Memories

_This sounds different than what I've written in the past, moctly becasue it's been too long since I've been able to write naything romtely good._

_Hope this works.  
_

Alexa- nineteen again, fearful and angry and tired and starved again. Tiny and useless and frail and nervous again. Dying again.

The world come back over her- swimming over her sight and catching the breaking point of her aging mind. How long ago? Could have been this morning. Could have been centuries past. She isn't sure anymore.

But the light is fading and everything is blindingly dark- reflected in the snow is her devotion to him- to what she'd believed so fervently that he could somehow become- a frail, disassociated idea. It had been stupid, really.

But the pain- that was the clearest memory, one that still haunted her dreams and seeped through into her nightmares. It had been red-hot agony burning through her skin and eating away at her chest. The knife, which she still carried out of a morbid kind of respect, had shot through her chest in a spur of crimson and she'd been left to die. Not just left. _Abandoned._

Those last few, pinpointed seconds dragged on and on, her fingers clutched and sputtered in the fleeting moments of consciousness. It probably hadn't been pretty- she'd seen death and could imagine what hers had been like. There had been a fierce howl and obliterating pain, spare second for thought and a terrifying moment of comprehension. He'd seen it in her eyes- Malcolm had relished it.

"I died," he still whispered to her though the shrouded past. "Years and years ago. But the good Lord granted me a faithful prayer. He sent his angel down for me. All I had to do," His wicked grin scarred her fading vision as he snarled to her, immersed in her hair and muttering into her pale, blood-spattered neck. "Was seek out the little wretches like you. Kill them. Make them suffer. And send on their merry little way downstairs." His grizzly beard had nuzzled her china and all this dying felt like an eternity.

But eternity was yet to come.

Eternity was always and everything, nowhere and nohow, careful and conceited, immature and kind. Nothing made and logical sense in this rightside-down world.

Falling back into the thread of conversation, she put up her defensive smile and offered the ape-like barman a hefty tip.

"Let's just go." She glanced awkwardly at Dean, who frowned and caught the eye of the older woman sitting at the table all by her lonesome. She cackled and lifted her eyebrows, almost too knowingly.

"Cute little dear you've found." She nodded to Dean.

He nodded back hesitantly and shared an eye-rolling session with Alexa. "I mean it."The drunk sputtered. "You watch out for the idiot who come through here. They don't like your kind." She once again nodded towards Alexa, ending her battered phrase with a chuckled 'hiccup!'.

_More to come. reviews are greatly appreciated._


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